His Own Leader
by SatyrsUnite
Summary: What would have happened if Draco Malfoy refused to join his mother in the seventh book as Voldemort proudly paraded Harry's body to the Hogwarts resistance? From the mysterious mind of Draco Malfoy, you must read to find out.


**One-Shot. I always wondered what Draco would have done if he and Harry had been a bit friendlier towards the other. Perhaps friendly isn't the word to use—instead of hating each other's guts, they respected one another's presence. How odd… **

** Now, from the mysterious mind of Draco Malfoy… His Own Leader!**

It wasn't true. It couldn't have been. All of this was a lie, or some sort of nightmare the Dark Lord had placed inside his head. This couldn't have been happening. It was impossible.

The Boy Who Lived… was dead. He was finally dead.

Draco had been in the south corridor of the castle when it had happened, when the first cheers had arisen from the ghouls that served him. He didn't think anything of it, and merely brushed the thought of it aside as he continued to pick his way through a pile of rubble.

Every step the Slytherin heir took made a cloud of ash billow into the warm air, choking his lungs, sticking to his damp throat. It didn't taste very exquisite, Draco thought, yet continued to navigate what had once been the interior of the Room of Requirement.

The last of the coals had begun to die when Draco had struck up the courage to enter the room. With a flourish of his cloak and a hand slicked through his hair, he trudged inside like a true Malfoy, proud, confident, and broken. He had thought he would be ready for this, prepared to find the body… no, _his_ body. Yet what met his eyes were not the gratuitous mounds of extraordinary furniture stacked so high they nearly touched the ceiling, nor were any flames still lapping at the fine tapestries that hung from the walls. It was all a barren wasteland, glowing red embers resting on the wash of grey ash before their light winked out.

Draco's silver eyes stung like mad, and no matter how many times Draco will reassure himself it was the smoke that brought the tears forth, in the back of his mind he will always know the true reason. He had lost a friend. Somewhere in this sea of once was would be the remains of Crabbe, and they were never to be found. With all the magic in the world Draco knew it would have still been impossible to find him, not with an _Accio_, nor a Time Turner.

The cheers sounded again, this time louder, and more victorious. It bothered him, knowing that someone was entirely pleased with themselves while others were left to mourn for those they had loved.

He hated to admit it, but yes. Draco had loved Crabbe; he was more than just a crony to carry out his evil deeds. He had been a brother, one who had been constantly tugged around like a puppet, one who was too oblivious to notice the evil in the world and was looked down for it.

Again, the cheers, and again, the flash of anger that spiked into his very core. Could no one understand? How dare they intrude on his mourni—

"The Boy is dead! The Boy is dead! Sing along the Boy is dead!" That voice, that cackling, high pitched laugher could only belong to one: Bellatrix.

And suddenly Crabbe didn't seem as important anymore. There was nothing more he could do for Crabbe but the other…

Something clenched inside as Bellatrix began to sing again. Acid burned in his throat, and his mouth curled into a frown, uncertain what this meant. Sure, the Boy was dead… but was it _that_ boy? Perhaps it was the Weasel, and his body was being brought to the Potter Boy so he could see that defeat was imminent…

But Draco highly doubted it.

He bolted from the Room of Requirement, his cloak catching on the door and tearing off in the process. Draco didn't even consider reclaiming it; he had to get to the front of the school, to the action, to H… Ha… Potter. His shock of hair was getting mussed from the icy wind, and his clothes were so stained with soot that his father would deem them shameful and unfit for the public, but at this point, Draco could care less. He had to make sure the rumor wasn't true, that the black-haired boy was still hopping around like some fighting crow, arrogance and courage still intact, his body unmarred from the woes of war.

Draco stumbled on a mound of rubble, sprawling out on the ground and smacking his face into the stone floor. He wiped at the blood with the back of his hand, pulling himself to his feet and sprinting to the main entrance. With every heartbeat, he could only hear one name.

And then, all was silent. As he arrived at the entrance, a crowd of students stood at the doors, tense, staring him down with a look of anger and remorse. He shoved through them, desperately seeking out the Dark Lord, bobbing his head above the crowd to look at the motionless bundle that would be close by.

Finally, there he was. So peaceful, so still, hugged to the groundskeeper's chest. Hagrid looked as though he was about to blubber like a babe, but he managed to keep in the sobs even as the tears ran freely down his dirty cheeks.

Granger and the Weasel glared at Draco as he stumbled closer to the body. Draco ignored them; at the moment, they weren't worth the time or effort. He had to get closer. It was his mission. He had to realize that it wasn't the Boy Who Lived, not the one he was so infatuated with.

Draco paused. Had he really just thought that? Was he truly… infatuated with Harry Potter? No, no, he couldn't be. How preposterous of an idea that was.

Draco was about to take another step forward when a call beckoned him away. Draco turned, finally realizing there was more to this crowd than just him and the Boy Who Captured His Attention.

The Dark Lord stood a few feet away, black robes shockingly dark against his grey skin. His dark eyes narrowed as he smiled at the Slytherin, perhaps seeing a bit of himself in him. The thought made a shiver slither down his spine. His attention was divided again when Draco realized he could see his father and mother waving at him, trying to call him over, but, like the others, they weren't worth the time.

"My Lord," Draco was surprised to hear his voice, so soft, so quiet. "Is he… is the boy…" Draco paused to clear his throat. _Try again you prat_, he bitterly thought. _A true Malfoy wouldn't cower. A true Malfoy wouldn't stutter in front of the Dark Lord._ Draco sighed. _A true Malfoy wouldn't have befriended the enemy._

Draco sighed again. He supposed that the definition of a Malfoy is a manipulated fool. His father was a perfect example—too afraid to challenge something he knew wasn't right. When things got too hard, Lucius had joined the stronger side. Draco bit his lip, hard enough until the metallic taste of blood graced his tongue. He was about to change that definition. "Is Harry dead?"

"Harry?" the villain hissed, the smile now dangerously wide.

"Excuse me my Lord," Draco said hastily, bowing once, mentally cursing himself for being so spineless. "Is that idiot Potter dead?" He hated these lies and how they flowed as easily as water from his lips.

At this, Lord Voldemort nodded. "Yes, yes, it is true." Turning to the Hogwarts warriors, he raised his arms and roared, "The Boy Who Lived is dead!"

No. No. It couldn't be. Not him. Not Harry… Potter… No, it's Harry.

_Say it Draco! Say his name. It's Harry. Not Potter. It's Harry._

And then it hit him, crushing the air from his lungs. It was Harry. He was dead.

Tears stung at his eyes again. There was so much he had left to say, so much he had left to do… Harry had understood why Draco was the way he was, didn't care that Draco was a selfish brat most days out of the week, and most of all, picked the beautiful mind that was Draco Malfoy. No one else had even bothered to attempt such a feat. Draco didn't get along with Harry's friends. Harry didn't get along with his. But somehow, through all the mess, they had come together in a… Draco caught his breath as the word _relationship_ popped into mind. Whether it was mutual or emotional, maybe even a tad confusing, they had found each other. They were one out of a million, nay, a billion! Out of everyone in the world, only one person knew who Draco truly was on the inside, and now…

"Draco," his mother called softly, hesitantly daring to step out of line. "Come here Draco. Come to mummy."

He stood in his place, fists clenched, panting as he fought to control the urge to rush to her open arms. This wasn't right. He wasn't used to disobedience. "Son," his father said. "Obey your mother."

"Yes Draco," mocked Voldemort. A childish hiss escaped the Dark Lord's lips—one of the cruelest laughs Draco had ever heard. "Come to mummy. Come over Draco. Embrace the winning side."

It all clicked. In that moment of clarity, Draco understood he had a choice. It was as simple as life or death. Live as a coward, or die a traitor, a hero, and a friend.

"No." His voice rose up, soft and meek at first. He shook his head and tried again, this time as loud as he could without screaming. "No."

His mother gasped, and his father held out his hand. "Come here Draco. Now."

"You cowards," Draco growled. "You only follow him because you fear him. Together you could rise up and crush him, but you don't! At least these people," he pointed at the Hogwarts assembly, all of which were shifting around uneasily, clearly confused by Draco's argument, "are trying to do something! They are risking it all just to save their world! I'm done!" Draco yelled this now, storming to the Dark Lord and staring him in the eye. "I'm done! Kill me now Dark Lord else I swear I'll kill you. Somehow, I'll find a way. That's it. I'm done! I'm not living like this anymore. You killed him! You killed Harry! Anyone that remotely understood me is now gone, and I swear that I'll spend every last breath cursing you!"

Draco took a step back. "I challenge you," he hissed, anger blazing in his once cold eyes. Before he knew what he was doing, Draco found himself striding, five, ten, fifteen meters before he spun around and bowed. "Bow like a proper wizard, _Dark Lord_," he spat. "Come now, or are you afraid?" Whispers began to travel through the crowds. Draco heard them all, but paid no attention to the "He's dead. A fiver says he's dead," or the "Malfoy's mad! He's bloody well done it now!" "Come on!" Draco roared as the Dark Lord bowed, incredibly slow, incredibly graceful, all wearing Draco's dwindling patience thin.

Blood lust clouded his eyes and his wand trembled in his hand. With a curse as powerful as any magician, Draco bellowed, "Avada Kedavra!"

It seemed to catch his opponent off guard. Draco had to admit that even he wasn't expecting such force. All of his anger, his love, and his frustration went into two simple words… To make matters even grander, Voldemort stumbled back a step as he flicked the spell aside. Fueled by this small victory, Draco flung it again, stepping forward, watching with satisfaction as it struck the Dark Lord. "That is it!" Lord Voldemort said. "No more games Mister Malfoy!" As he held the Elder Wand out, Draco's heart skipped a beat. "Avada Kedavra!"

"No, Draco!"

But Draco was oblivious, oblivious to the plea, oblivious to the boy that tumbled from the half-giant's arms and leapt for him. All around, the battle continued, yet Draco was too focused on the one jet of green light that flew towards him. Draco twirled his wand expertly, although it didn't feel the same. It was his mother's wand; he had lost his own in a skirmish with the Potter boy long ago. However, he was determined to not be bothered by such discomfort, to let something so small destroy him, and when a Malfoy set his mind to something, it would be done.

The curse was nearly upon him when he flung out the same curse, only to counteract the attack. The adrenaline pumping through Draco's heart began to fade, and he began to notice all the cricks and pains his body had endured. Only know did Draco fully understand how Lord Voldemort became Lord Voldemort: Draco's own strength would be no match to the wizard's. With all hope slowly failing, and as Draco's knees began to shake, a desperate snarl curled on his face. He would never go down with a whimper. Not anymore.

"End it Draco!" someone cried, in a voice oh so familiar. "I'll cover you! Draco, let it go!" At first, Draco couldn't believe his ears. No, he was dead. The Dark Lord killed him. It was… It was…

…all a lie. Draco's arms found the strength to wrench the wand away, and as he dove to the side, someone new took his place.

Draco wasted no time in getting to his feet, whirling around to see who his savior was. For the first time since the battle began, Draco smiled. "Harry," he breathed in awe.

Although Harry couldn't hear him, too concentrated on the duel at hand, Draco thought Harry seemed brighter, perhaps even a tad perplexed. But then again, just about everyone seemed dazed after Draco's glorious rebellion.

_Draco's Rebellion_, the boy mused, absentmindedly adjusting his grip on his wand. _I like the sound of that._

Harry looked fierce in the red light projecting from his wand, with his teeth gritted and his body assuming an offensive stance. Draco's smile quickly faded once he saw a Death Eater eye Harry and aim his wand in his direction. That strange fire burned in his throat again, and his stomach clenched, but Draco embraced it, running behind the Chosen One and screaming, "Stupefy!"

The next minute was a whirlwind of activity. Draco was a fearsome foe, felling all who dare oppose the great Harry Potter. In one moment, he was fighting beside Neville, who took the time to nod at him and clap a hand against Draco's back. In another, Draco was back to back with his most despised ginger, yet neither him nor the Weasel glared at one another throughout their individual dueling. They shared a common goal: protect Harry at all costs. That was all that mattered.

Granger and the Dreamer found their way to him as well, the Mudblood attempting to give him helpful jinxes to use, while Luna would murmur something about how the Nurgles were terrified with all this fighting. Either way, Draco felt… accepted? _What a preposterous idea_, Draco grinned, _and yet completely intriguing._

Only when he felt a hand on his shoulder did Draco pause fighting. Following the hand, Draco realized it was Weasley that held him still, and without even a jeer, Ron directed Draco's attention to the core of the fighting: Harry versus Voldemort.

Harry was winning. Everyone could tell. As the two warriors bellowed out the fatal curse, Harry's red spell was gaining ground. Harry was saying something, but it was so faint that no one could hear.

And then, in the matter of a mere second, it was over. The Dark Lord's scream echoed in the air as his body began to crack, the red glow swallowing him whole and spitting him out in tiny flakes.

It was completely silent. Everyone was staring at the spot the Dark Lord had just been, and at the flakes that flew through the air, never to reunite. Draco, however, was staring at Harry. The boy was panting, leaning heavily on his left leg, his arm still raised and his wand still aiming, ready for anything.

Death Eaters began vanishing, dissipating into black smoke and flying away. As each enemy left, Draco wondered if he should do the same. He didn't think the Hogwarts victors would appreciate him around. After all, the Malfoy name was synonymous with Voldemort, with Dark Magic. Draco rose his wand, ready to twirl it and send the necessary spell that would make him vanish in a puff of smoke, but a gentle hand held onto the wand and guided it down. Draco turned to see the Dreamer, her long pale hair frizzing, her eyes still as innocent as ever.

"The Nargles thank you Draco," Luna said. Draco nodded and put the wand away.

A cheer went up, so loud, so joyous, Draco's ears began to ring. Neville, standing nearby, poked Draco with his wand. Draco turned to him.

"Cheer up mate," the once enemy said. "We won!"

Draco raised his arms with the rest of them and howled for all he was worth. If only his father could see him now.

The mess left by the war had been disastrous, and took weeks to clean up. But in the aftermath, something good came out of the battle for Draco Malfoy. Harry had gone up to him, and after a tense silence, all eyes on them, they shook hands. "What's this mean Pot—Harry?" Draco had asked, for once cringing under the limelight. "I don't believe I understand."

"Come now Malf—Draco," Harry corrected himself. "I think this means we're mates." Harry leaned forward, as if to whisper a secret in Draco's ear. "You did a wondrous thing Draco."

"I know," said Draco smugly. Draco's silver coin eyes glanced down at his ruined shoes. "This is going to be tough isn't it? You kind of screwed up everything Harry." Draco's eyes lifted, flickering to the emeralds staring back at him. "In a good way, I suppose."

Someone groaned beside them. Ron slowly walked towards them, his face monotonous. "Er… Draco…" he began, eyes shifting over to the side. Hermione was standing nearby, glaring at the boy. Ron swallowed and continued, rather hesitant. "I suppose we'd just like to thank you. I mean, well, I think you inspired a few of us to keep fighting, doing what you did." Ron looked away, towards Granger. "Bloody hell Hermione, can I stop now?"

"He'll think you're insufferable, Ronald, if you end it like that!"

"He already thinks that!"

Draco smiled, extending a hand, trying his best to look civil. He feared it wasn't working. "Do something with that ginger hair of yours Weasley and we could talk."

And for once, as the night passed, so did his troubles. For once, Draco had figured out who to follow, who would lead him to greatness. And, as a true Malfoy, Draco was pleased to learn that it was himself. With all eyes on him, in true Malfoy manner, Draco marched out of the room with a flourish, no explanation given. He was much too good for that.

**Thanks for Reading! From, the community satyr worshipper,**

**SatyrsUnite**


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